Candles
by thousandmonkeys
Summary: Perfection is a long way away, yet. There was a time when even the vampires were young. Prequel!Fic centered on the lives of the vampires.
1. Of Dust

As the sight of the squat spider of a manor house loomed before him, the carriage's passenger fidgeted. Blocky, it bore none of the elegance he'd come to expect of a noble's castle. Instead, the building stood stark against the reddening sky. With spires thrusting up brutally, there were none of the starlings or daws he'd seen on the journey here. If the colours of evening were from the sky weeping, he wouldn't be surprised; the idea, though fanciful, suited the occupants. That is, if the stories were true, and not inflated pomposity.

Old nobility. Wealthy. Related to the Voivode of Wallachia himself.

'Fitting' was an understatement.

As carriage wheels moved over the unpaved soil, it jolted to and fro, unseating the passenger. Dust, kicked up from the horses in front, tasted ashen on his tongue and rough on his skin. Approaching closer brought a crocus garden into view. Stretching out as a dappled moat, garish purples and greens, the field was the only touch of colour against a stone-grey landscape. Spring brought pollen, and from such a vast field, the effect magnified.

He coughed; a mistake. More dust filled his throat, and, chest heaving, he leaned back against his seat. Stars danced behind closed eyelids as he exhaled. For that moment, his world consisted solely of the rumble of wooden wheels, and the croaking of bullfrogs.

Clattering, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. He cracked an eyelid open to see what was going on. The coachman was typically gentler than that whenever he brought them to a stop. In front of the manor proper, he'd expected it even more so. Looks like he wasn't the only one lethargic from the day's travel.

Parting the heavy curtains, darkness greeted him. In the small space of time that they had taken to cross the distance between the front gate and the servant's manor, night had fallen. The sun sank early, up in the mountains.

Rubbing instinctively at his eyes, he blinked blearily before dismounting. After the well-lit interior of the carriage, walking around at night was little better than being blind. No doubt with his reddened eyes and pale hair, he was all too reminiscent of a drowned rat; what a wonderful first impression he would make!

Up close, the manor house was smaller than anticipated, to say the least. The darkened wood which had made it so imposing on approach seemed far too aged up close. Weather-beaten walls made the top floors sag slightly, marring the dignified air. The lower floors appeared otherwise whole, save for ambitious vines of ivy. The plants climbed up towards the stumpy towers, lending the barest touch of colour.

Against that darkened, desolate backdrop, the lone figure standing before it took his breath away.

Before him was a girl, eyes wide open and smile stretched wide across her cherubic features. A man's feathered hat perched jauntily on her auburn hair, far too large for such a petite figure. Lace and muslin fell about her as a waterfall as she swept forwards with a stately grace too old for her years.

One of the lord's daughters, perhaps?

Or a particularly arrogant maidservant; that was possible, too. Despite her finely tailored dress, she didn't carry the bejewelled finery expected of nobility.

Bowing perfunctorily, he made no attempt at disguising his impatience. It had been a long journey, and exhaustion had sunk deep into his bones.

"Good evening. Is the lord of the manor in? I am-"

"Rather scrawny, yes. That you are. What do they _feed_ you?"

Disdain laced her voice as she spoke, interrupting his introduction. and he abandoned all attempts at politeness, then. There wasn't much use in introducing himself to somebody so rude, after all.

"Usually, food. Which would be much appreciated, around now."

"Hm. Perhaps."

She couldn't have been over the age of twelve; that might attest to her behaviour. Without a further word, she turned, making her way through the open doors. He fell in step behind her.

It hadn't seemed possible, yet the insides of the manor were even more barren than the outside. The few painting that lined the walls depicted only the landscape of the surroundings. Certainly, the frames shone brightly, gilded in genuine gold, but he'd expected- more.

Disappointment rose; coming from the lavish halls of a Third Progenitor, to be sent this dismal ruin seemed a punishment. Nothing at all like the glorified opportunity they'd convinced him with.

"I would prefer to speak to the lord himself, miss," he said stiffly.

"The lord?" Genuine confusion crossed her fair features, and candlelight threw odd shadows across the makings of a frown. She smiled tightly. "Truly? The 'lord'?"

"Whoever employed you, yes."

Such dullness; the conviction that this was a mere servant girl was rising with each word they'd exchanged. The lord of the manor must exercise a dismal lack of discipline amongst those under his employ. Perhaps this was why he'd been sent here? It was entirely possible that Lady Fatima had felt the same; never fear, the epitome of politeness and fine breeding was here.

"Were you born in a barn, boy?" she asked, throwing out the question as an afterthought. "Amongst the pigs, and other such animals? The sheer ignorance astounds."

"Close. After all, some might say that the barns of nobility are equal to a merchant's best. Especially in such a barbaric country such as this," he said, affecting a sneer. If he were to lose face so quickly against a mere servant girl, he had no hope of maintaining his position here.

It made no impression whatsoever on his guide.

"Oho! Is that so?" The girl hid a laugh behind a gloved hand, the sound utterly discordant with her sweet appearance. Carried with the light mirth of a simple palace girl, the mocking laugh seemed near surreal. It would've been more home falling from the lips of some matronly matriarch instead. "Then, in that event, our dear guest must take care, mustn't he? Such noble feet wouldn't want to tread in filth, after all."

Said guest shifted uneasily. His fumbling attempts at maintaining dignity had proven barren. Still, he couldn't let such a blatant challenge go unanswered. "Of course. I'm grateful that you understand," he managed.

With a flounce of her sleeves, she made her way down the corridors, navigating with a practiced ease.

"Brave, aren't you?" Her voice was cherry sweet. An overripe fruit; not in body, but in mind. "Aren't you worried? Haven't you heard stories about the evil vampires? Right in the heart of one's territory, you are."

"Brave, aren't _you_?" he shot back at the girl, mouth twisted into a mocking grimace. "Looks like they don't teach their children simple manners around here."

"My, my! The heir to the Bathory name has guts. I wonder what they would look like, strewn so-and-so as decorations. A wonderful colour, no doubt," she said cheerily, paying no heed to the grotesque nature of her words. "After all, from what you said, they feed you well."

"I see you know of me. Wonderful. I didn't have to introduce myself, then." This, at least, was familiar ground. No doubt what would follow would be the usual bowing and scraping. Secure in the familiar throne of his social status, he pressed on. "And who are you to run your mouth so?"

For a moment, it seemed as if she'd not heard him, her gait unbroken, her manner unperturbed. That, at least, was strange. There was none of that eagerness to proclaim status that he'd been so accustomed to in Lady Fatima's court.

Surely anybody aware of the Bathory name, and all it entailed, would seek to prove her worth before him?

"Ah—" She paused, a glimmer in her eye. "It seems that Fatima's gift isn't quite up to her usual standard, I see. Well, it is the first time I've merited something more than the usual livestock. Though, the intelligence of this one is sadly-lacking."

"G-gift?" A gift, true enough, but few would dare call it so, save for—

"Lady—"

"Lady Tepes, _indeed_ ," she said, clear as a bell. Her voice of cut crystal resounded loud across the deserted hallway. "I must commend you for being so incredibly obtube, dear boy. There is no Lord for you to meet, here. Merely me."

Heart sinking, his eyes darted around the cavernous halls. There was a precise reason for the distinct lack of guards, instead of mere complacency.

The Progenitor had no need of them. For the first time since arriving, he felt the familiar grip of terror creeping across his skin. Even before the spider's web of Lady Fatima's court, he hadn't felt such abject terror, kept out of sight as an observer as he was. Now, though, as she turned her gaze upon him in full, tilting her head up slightly to meet his gaze, he trembled. A trapped mouse was an apt descriptor. He willed himself to speak, but no sound emerged.

There was such age in those eyes, no hint of softness at all.

"Welcome to House Tepes, Ferid Bathory. I do hope you find yourself at home, here."

This time, her smile showed all her teeth; candlelight glinted off her fangs, rending the world and all that made sense along with it.


	2. i

Curtains lifted gently as they were stirred by the summer breeze, and heady scent of ripening fruit filled the air, proclaiming the advent of summer. Even through the cataracts of a cantankerous codger, it was a night which may have been considered perfect.

By virtue of this still night, the maidservants turned in early. Not so much out of laziness, no; instead, they were satisfied that the page, Ferid, would be able to handle to most of the lady's needs. Though a poor hand at brewing tea, he was more than adept at running a hot bath, or polishing the silverware. That was all was required at this time, after all. Nobody expected more of a new arrival, who'd spent barely a month in the Tepes halls.

This assumption infuriated him.

The very fact that he, of the illustrious Bathory house, would be rendered to a mere page irked him to no end. No doubt that his proper place as heir to the Bathory name was one more noble than this; graciously selected to live amongst their counterparts, they said, when they'd bundled him off at the tender age of five. It certainly had been gracious, for a time. Luxuries beyond compare, and sitting at the feet of the movers and shakers of the world– till his so-called fortunate summons to the House Tepes.

Yet, there was no help for it; their own patron, Fatima, had so gracefully abandoned him. Thrown him to the dogs. Or, in this case, thrown him to a barbaric dandy of a leech. Admittedly, a beautiful leech, but one all the same.

Lost in his reverie, he didn't hear the tremendous rapping at the door. Impatient, and far too forceful, each knock seemed as if it may break down the ancient wood. Ferid thundered his way down the steps in his haste to meet the unexpected guest. Nobody had called, nor had there been any messages passed on. Racking his brains, despite himself, he couldn't find an explanation.

It was simply ridiculous, to be called on at this time. Surely Lady Krul hadn't arranged for such an inconvenience? She was out riding, for the love of God! Though he understood that she had her bouts of frivolity, this was highly uncharacteristic of her.

Ah, perhaps that was it.

Perhaps his lady had decided to ride her stallion into the halls again. It wouldn't be a first. The last time she did so, mud had been tracked in, and onto the pristine carpet. The horse's hooves had ground in the soil, and left all the manner of unsightly stains. Red mud, black mud, brown mud– even purple, for some unfathomable reason. Not to mention what had been needed to clean it off! The soaps required to handle the mess had eaten the skin off a young maidservant's hands; Ferid had to compensate her generously. The lady in fault had paid little attention, so fixated she was with her latest fascination with horses.

Wrenching the door open, he prepared to launch into admonishment. "Lady Tepes, I–"

He fell silent as he saw the guest.

Towering over him was a bear of a man, large in size and stature. Though his face was largely obscured by the shadow of his hat–a sizeable monstrosity of tafetta and silk–his red irises glimmered like rubies. It wasn't the luxuriant burgundy of Krul's eyes, nor the vivid crimson of his lady Fatima's. Instead, they burned with the cunning of an albino weasel.

The same way that Ferid looked at dogs, did the guest–for it had to be a guest–look at him. The man's eyes glazed over him, barely registering him as an existence. As he spoke, his thin lips curled back in distaste, revealing yellowed, animalistic teeth. "The livestock speaks? Unpleasant."

Sweeping right past the page, he made his way into the house, uninvited. In his wake was the undeniable crust of mud. Ferid suppressed the urge to scream.

Somebody more daring may have tried to stop the other. Ferid was not of that caliber. Instead, pattering after the man, he affected a vapid smile. "Sir, I can't help but object. This is the domain of Lady Tepes. Who are you to simply appear, and invite yourself in?" Ferid started, his face a perfect mask of subservience. The overall atmosphere demanded for wringing of hands, and other such sycophantic gestures. Still, such weakness would no doubt be seized upon, and he hid behind his role as a servant.

The man didn't deign a reply; indeed, for all that he reacted, Ferid might as well have been a particularly persistent mosquito.

"I take it that the Lady sent for you?" he tried again, in the hopes that mention of his master would elicit some kind of response. "Sir?"

Still no reply. To be quite honest, Ferid hadn't expected one.

The man continued stalking down the hallway, nearing the inner corridors. He paused slightly at the sight of the elaborately carved doors, humming thoughtfully. Cocking his head as he considered some unfathomable thought, for once, his relentless progress was halted.

Ferid took the opportunity presented to him, planting himself firmly between the man and his destination. He would take whatever was given to him, and hell to the consequences. Arms folded, he affected a supercilious sneer; the trembling of his voice, however, belied his true emotions: terror. Boots-quaking, shivering, panicked, terror.

"Sir, these are the private quarters!" he declared. "You–"

His words ended in a choked gasp; the man had seized him by the throat. Sharpened nails dug into his throat, not quite hard enough to break skin.

"I know perfectly well these are her private quarters, slave," he snarled as he lifted Ferid up as if he weighed no more than a rag doll. His breath smelled of dust; of the grave, and shot through with the undercurrent of blood. "Though some may appreciate how dedicated you are to your master– even the most loyal dog should cower when faced with a wolf. Unless said dog has the mental capacity of a flea. Ah, but livestock know no shame, do they not?"

Ferid struggled weakly in an attempt to escape. He tried to turn his head away, but against the vicegrip of his assailant, he might as well have been fighting a mountain. Light-headedness was pervasive, all consuming, and the room slowly rotated around him. Whatever the man said, he paid little attention to; getting air into his lungs was a thousand times more important. Then–

A sharp cough broke the silence.

The man's grip went slack.

Ferid fell like a limp marionette.

"Lucas Wesker. We hadn't expected you."

Silhouetted against the moonlight, Krul cast an imposing figure, despite her dirt-stained riding suit. Perched atop a jet-black stallion and clothes voluminous, she blocked out the very moon itself, sending the hallway into darkness. She carried herself with an arctic calm, offering no regard to the intruder.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up from Ferid's throat; suddenly, his fear of the guest had disappeared. Though he and Krul may not have been on the very best of terms, the spectre of death– or, at the very least, grievous injury–had vanished.

Instead, his only thought was: _of course Krul would track mud in again. As expected._

While he'd been lost in his own thoughts, however, the two nobles had appraised each other; and both found the other lacking. It was evident from the set of their jaw; in the curve of their lips. Both believed themselves to be the superior.

Krul spoke first, as she urged her horse closer. The animal whinnied, unnerved by Wesker's presence. It may have become accustomed to Krul and her own specific brand of inhumanity, but that had been trained into the beast. It had no such training to tolerate the noble known as Lucas Wesker; and thus, it did what any common animal would do; it balked; reared.

"Is it not customary for you to be invited in? Whatever happened to manners in this day and age? I had expected a modicum of decorum from the Wesker messenger boy."

"The Wesker _lord_ , Lady Tepes. My father has died, as any child could tell you. And as I'm sure you would know yourself. Though they must find it difficult to send news up to the mountains; few would understand a civilised language, and fewer would appreciate the news." Despite the imminent threat of death by horse hooves–an ignoble death more fitting for a five-year-old heir to a decaying house than the proud noble that stood there–Lucas Wesker didn't so much as blink.

"That snivelling man? He was a fool, consumed by arrogance. And lust; pray tell, how many siblings do you have, little lord?"

"Yet, he was not fool enough that he kept stock in human traditions! The First Progenitor himself would be turning over in shame!" Lucas Wesker, too, stepped closer to Krul; though she sat upon her horse, his impressive physique almost dwarfed the rider.

Krul smiled, lips curving upwards. In the moonlight, the lines of her face were inscrutable, a pleasant mask of disregard. "Isn't it a relief, then, that he isn't awake? That he left no trace of himself upon this fine earth? I would so hate to shame him."

"And who's fault is that?"

"Ah-ah," she tutted. "Certainly not mine."

"Is that so?" Disbelief had found an avatar, it seemed; it resided in the voice of Wesker.

"Take that as you believe, then. I, for one, will not stand in my hallway like some gossiping maid," she declared. The insinuation that the man's behaviour was akin to a maidservant was not lost on either of the men, and Lucas Wesker bristled.

He made to speak, but was cut short as Krul's petite form lunged forward, burgundy eyes glinting with malice, and silenced him with a kiss. Disgusted, he staggered back, rubbing a lacy sleeve across his now bleeding lip. From his lips emerged a feral growl, and he bared his own fangs at the smaller figure.

Idly, in the background, Ferid wondered if he should avert his eyes; it seemed perverse to watch so closely. Even as he watched, the puncture wound healed: flesh knit over the twin holes that his master's fangs had left in Wesker's lower lip, and save for the thin trails of brown left behind, it might as well have never happened. The exploits of his master held no interest for him, as beautiful as she was.

"Await me in the drawing room, little Wesker," she said airily. With a graceful pirouette, she pivoted the horse around, intent on vacating the corridor. "I have yet to stable my creature; and my steed takes precedence over a whimpering child, I'm afraid. "

"I am not your subordinate, Lady Krul. The Weskers never have been!" Lucal Wesker growled to her retreating back.

She afforded him no care, affecting deafness.

Ferid fell into step behind her, loping through the halls with gangly grace. Privileged as he was to follow so closely, he could see every movement that Krul made. Gloved hands gripping the horse's mane tight, she seemed unperturbed by the sudden visit. Marble statues would envy her for the impassive nature of her countenance.

That is, save for a single soft whisper escaping from her lips; a moth's wings beat louder upon the air. In the time it took for him to lean forward, ears straining to catch it, the simulacrum of speech had been lost amongst the dust.

At the outer corridors, she dismounted. Hard heels clattered upon stone at her sudden movements, bearing none of the grace he'd come to associate with his new Lord. Indeed, it could be said that she had stumbled, the floor no longer cooperating. As she took off her riding hat, shaking her hair free of its metal prison, strawberry strands curled about her face. The hair framed her face, and in the soft moonlight, lent an air of youth to the ordinarily harsh features. Incredibly vulnerable, the facade of the impenetrable progenitor had disappeared in that instant.

Ferid thought it imprudent to point that out. Instead, sweeping forward, he made to take the now riderless horse's reins. "Do I return him to the stables now, Lady Krul?"

"Let him run in the fields for some time. The mountains have not been kind to him," she murmured, eyes abstracted. Though ordinarily resplendent in fine silk and taffeta, the leather of her attire clung to her. Diminutive was a word that sprang to mind, though in a different time, Ferid would never have dared to think as such.

For the first time, a nugget of curiosity rose. Their guest, now alone in the drawing room, and wreaking god-knows-what on the furnishings, must not have been an average noble. Certainly not anything like the snivelling, scraping men of his previous Lady's court.

Then again, the vampires of the Silk Road seemed as concerned with gold as the vampires of the central continent were with glory and strenght. The rumours had proven true, after all.

He glanced doubtfully at the monstrous creature; its sides heaved with exertion, its eyes rolled maniacally. Steam rose from its sides, muscles bulging with strenght. If Krul had resembled a delicate doll when astride her hellion, then the steed itself was the Minotaur in equine form. Ears erect, it stood proud and alert, snorting as Ferid took hold of the swinging halter with a trembling hand.

It stilled as he pulled upon the reins, and Ferid heaved a relieved sigh. "Of course," he nodded.

" _Such_ a good boy," she said, and pivoted to face the arcade behind her. "Call for one of the maids, too, on your way out." Trapped in her eternally youthful body, she had to take special pains to intimidate guests; getting dressed would take the better part of an hour.

Humming to himself lightly, he made to do as he was bade. He led the horse down and out of the halls. turning it free on the meadow; his only companion was a waif of a stable boy, long hair flowing unbound about him, and who turned to look at Ferid with curious eyes. Ferid didn't recognise him; a new hand, perhaps. The boy's cheeks were still round with the vigour of youth, cheeks flushed with life rarely seen in the serving class.

He acknowledged the other with a slight nod, and turned back to watch over his charge. The animal's powerful legs carried it across the expansive meadow in an instant, sending mud every which way. Though Lady Krul could cross greater distances than any simple horse, she did so hate to dirty what few clothes she possessed.

As the stallion easily leaped the fence surrounding it, the stable boy took off without so much as a by-your-leave. Ferid watched the boy chase after the horse, clothes flapping about him. Satisfied that somebody else had taken responsibility for the hellion of an animal, he turned back inside the house. It was easy to retrace his steps; he simply had to follow the trail of muddy horseshoes.

His mind roiled in turmoil, wondering what this visit even meant. After all, as a sheltered page, he could make a decent guess at Krul's earlier thoughts; the word she'd uttered bore a certain resemblance to the expletive of 'bastard'.

* * *

Some time later, Ferid lounged idly behind Krul, vanishing with the silk and ruffles he favoured against the ornate murals of the drawing room. Gangly with adolescence, the boy seemed so very natural despite the near palpable tension. Krul herself stood stark against the vivid crimson tapestry, a figure cut of shadow and onyx.

Lucas Wesker, of course, seemed to take up much more space than was appropriate, legs wide and arms perched on the arm rests. Master of the house, in his own eyes, despite his status as unwelcome guest. He had been speaking for some time now, and it was starting to become ever so slightly repetitive.

"A shame you have to dirty your hands, Lady Krul, with the blood of the livestock. Then again, one that is raised in ashes and dirt can never rise above their position, and those that say otherwise are sadly mistaken. You should engage an aide; a charming mutt to bark at your heels. Though, I am unsure if that is within your reach. I can barely believe you're a Seventh Progenitor, m'dear! And at that age, too," he said, appraising Krul's slight form with his beady eyes. "Nepotism at its finest, I see?"

Insect in a glass cage– yet he didn't know that this insect was merely the lure of a much larger being. Like the anglerfish lantern tempts its prey, Krul was playing a certain game. Gambling with her status, and only time would tell if it would pay off.

Her visage gave no hint to that, however. Instead, she appeared every inch the vulnerable noble woman, inclining her head.

As a Nineteenth Progenitor, and thus socially inferior to Krul's own position as Seventh, the Wesker patriarch had no place in affecting the mannerisms he did. Words laced with a honeyed tone, and accompanied unfailingly by supercilious sneer, he made Ferid's skin crawl. Not that the Weskers would ever admit their debased status; once a noble, proud family, they'd been reduced due to their love of patricide. Or matricide, as dependent on whoever was the head of the house.

Vampire nobility, though a fragmented bunch, shared certain traits– arrogance was one of them. They never got anything done with all that posturing. It was painfully pedantic and a tremendous waste of time, in Ferid's eyes. Of course, a flair for the dramatic was always very well and good– things would be so painfully dull otherwise– but it did get tiring to follow.

"Nepotism? An entertaining notion; I wonder if that is so."

It was a relief that Krul Tepes' own ego was inestimable; the man's assertions gave her no pause whatsoever. She continued stirring her cup daintily, taking a sip only when some esoteric condition had been met.

From what Ferid could see, it was every third circuit of the cup that was the criteria. Amber in hue and radiating warmth, the drink appeared as an ordinary cup of tea; certainly, visually, it would identical to Ferid's own morning drink, if not for the unmistakeable scent of iron which rose from it. The miasma was palpable, an iron edge to the humid summer breeze.

Spring had fast faded into summer, far faster than it had any right to, and with it, brought mosquitoes. Horrid little insects with an insatiable taste for blood; similar to the manor house's occupants, really. He was starting to think that Krul had placed him strategically to attract them. Certainly, neither of the nobles seemed to pay attention to said insects. Shaking his foot, he tried to dislodge them. It seemed like mosquitoes found the blood of fifteen-year-old squire far tastier than whatever stood for 'blood' amongst vampires.

"What else could it be, little Tepes upstart? Three centuries younger than the Weskers, frailer than a sapling, and you take the seat of a Seventh Progenitor? Not a single glorious deed to your name. Milady." The Wesker patriarch unwillingly ground out the last honorific as an afterthought. "That is, unless you wish to include that act of barbarism that called down the whole world's attention on your descendants!"

He slammed his fist down on the table, emphasising the point. The glass cracked under the pressure, hairline fractures in the surface spreading from his fist.

Oh; so he hadn't simply come to waste time. Ferid had wondered. He'd also wondered how exactly he could manage to remain unnoticed. Through the entire conversation, Lucas Wesker had paid no attention to the beribboned 'livestock' in the corner, having dismissed him as a mere manservant. That suited Ferid; all the better to observe. He knew little of his Lady's deeds, though they were doubtlessly of a high standard.

"You flatter me so, my dear Wesker. Yet– the world's attention had long been on me and mine. Justly so, too."

"Have you gone mad?" That Krul would regard the yet unknown incident as desirable had never crossed Lucas Wesker's mind. "Delirious, perhaps, from the summer heat?"

"Perhaps."

Krul had described Lucas Wesker as an upstart. Unworthy of the Wesker name. A pitiful excuse of a noble. Content in the laurels of his family's wealth and holdings, the man had never aspired to heights greater than that which his ancestors could achieve.

A small man; one that Ferid was certain that he could best in a swordfight. Vampire or no, the man looked as if he'd never wielded a sword in his life; his physique was no indicator of skill. A bear would be deadly, certainly, but a blade might as well have been a toothpick, for all the use it bore. His blade hung at his side, resplendent with jewels, and wholly impractical. Ferid's own twin was unadorned, befitting a page. Still, under layers of Ferid's revulsion and disgust at the man's arrogance, was the smallest nugget of admiration. He was out of his depth, yet plodded forward as if fascinated by the prospect of victory.

"Is that not your own failing? Blame not the laws, but instead your maker for being _weak_. After all, even a decade old fledgling of the Tepes could easily take on the century old patriarch of the Wesker. It is our difference in pedigree that sets us apart. As you know very well yourself."

The Wesker patriarch drew back, insulted. "The Wesker line is a fine, and ancient one. And you presume to compare us with your scion? He's barely more than a child!"

"Aha. Then it must be the inbreeding," Krul retorted, acerbic. Though she's appeared unperturbed throughout the meeting, an edge had crept into her voice at the man's insinuations. "Is that not the very model of nepotism? Dear boy, you seem to have quite missed the point."

Behind them, silent, Ferid's brows furrowed slightly. Despite himself, he couldn't figure out who nobles were speaking of. Kept in ignorance for the first decade of his life, Ferid Bathory had learned more about vampires in three years than through listening in at Fatima's court before. Vampires were not vulnerable to the sun, for one; they had few children– scion, that insufferable inflated word– for another. News of one would spread like wildfire, especially in such an insular culture like the vampires shared. And the Lady Tepes had one?

"Lady Tepes!" Wesker inhaled sharply, eyes alight. "As much as it would please me, I did not come here for your scion– though God knows such a human action deserves it. No, I came here bearing a threat. A warning. The Progenitor council has taken note of you– or to be precise, your line."

"Such an aggressive man," she hissed. "You do not know your place. Lowly nineteenth progenitor, and you seek to judge me and mine? My line, and my human counterparts, are of no concern to you." Her grip tightened, and sharp nails ripped through the upholstery. The fine leather was rent, red sides gaping open, mirroring Krul's own snarl.

Ferid leaned forward, desperate to catch even the slightest hint of what they were speaking of.

"Do you understand the consequences of their notice, or not?" the noble demanded. Rising from his seat, he thrust his face before hers. Ferid fancied that Lucas Wesker's breath smelled of metal, of blood. "I once bore you respect, you vulture! Cain to your own kin, your poor Abels!"

"And did _I_ not support your macabre rise to power?" Fearless, she ran a thumb over the man's dark circles, the kohl lining his eyes only emphasising it. He held still as she did so, and she let her hand drop, turning away. "Speak to me of fratricide when you absolve yourself of the hauntings of the Wesker tradition. I have no time for a hypocrite. We simply survive; as _he_ said. We are transient guests."

"I see my words fall on deaf ears," he spat, eyes rolling. The wild glint within seemed all too reminiscent of a frothing stallion. Drawing himself back, he trembled, before stilling. His voice was flat with a deadly calm, as he spoke. "The coming months will see many come for your head. There are rules, laws, little Lady, and your heritage can't protect you after this transgression. You should never have sought to free yourself from your human ties. We may rule over the livestock, but we are still from them. And you–!"

"Is that all you have to tell me? Then leave." She leaned back with a huff. "Feel free to make your own way out. I have no patience for you, little Lucas. Intimidation may work on a lesser being, but not I."

"–to think that you would accept a servant from the very house that supplanted your own!" he continued, implacable. Krul's words had come too late; the man had swept past her already, and the heavy oaken door slammed shut with a terrible finality. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Ferid held still for dear life. His master had a terrible habit of lunging out, of breakingthings, in her rage, and from the state of the armchair's upholstery, she was in a foul mood indeed.

Ferid waited till the heavy footsteps had all but faded away before he spoke. "Seeing how your guest has just left, Lady Tepes," he began, mouth thinning in distaste. "I'm not sure for what reason you had me come here in the first place." If not for her pulling him into the room, he would've lingered around outside the door, a mere eavesdropper.

"Seen and not heard," she said, rising from her seat. "Seen and not heard. Nobody pays attention to the livestock, little chick. Not even one as fond of ribbons and fine silk as you are. Dress a rooster up and place a bonnet on it's silly head, and it's still a rooster– at least to the common man. And fortunately for us, that."

Lost in thought, she moved over to look at her reflection; in the window's darkened glass, the eyes within were creased in worry. Tapping her nails on the darkened glass to an unheard melody, she continued her perusal of her own reflection.

"It's my pleasure to serve," he said sardonically. The frustration of being kept ignorant had brought his temper to a boil. "I suppose you want me to play the lapdog, too? Bark on your command? Woof!"

"If only you were so obedient," she sighed.

"You wouldn't find me as entertaining if I were, yes?"

She crossed the distance between them with clipped steps; though her voice was airy, light, those burgundy eyes were hard. Ferid shivered under her touch. She traced the veins of his neck, never pressing hard enough to break skin, merely to make her presence known; would this be how he died? Gone was the vulnerable lady-lord of before; gone was the reticent general. In its place was the impassive monster of a master he'd sworn to serve– though not out of his own volition.

"It is your own neck that you risk, Bathory boy, if you speak out of turn. I certainly do indulge you; others may not be so kind. Run along, now; run me a bath. Running is all you are good for, at the moment."

* * *

A/N: And the first real chapter is done! Lucas Wesker is an OC, one that will play a minor role in this. I did say that headcanons abound.. Anyways! Thank you for reading, and I hope you will continue to follow this fic of mine.


	3. ii

_Shing!_

As he parried the blow, the blade's metallic shriek sent Ferid's ears ringing. He stumbled back, panting. Eyes narrowed, he lifted his head to refocus his swimming vision on the figure of his assailant. Her slight frame was nothing but a murky shadow in his exhaustion. Narrowed in terrible implacability, the burgundy gaze brooked no mercy. Ferid shivered. Sweat rolled down his temples, and dripped from the ends of his hair. Some had found its way into his mouth, and it tasted of brine. The dew of his exhaustion carried with it the fruit of the sea.

 _Snick._

Pervading, the smell of lilies surround him, curled deep into his lungs with every breath. The garden's crocuses had been replaced with the white blooms, growing out of season with some esoteric technology. Trodding on one as he was forced into retreat, his opponent's lips tightened in displeasure.

 _Skree—–_

Sliding past his guard, and up close, the polearm seemed far too close for comfort. Rapping hard across his knuckles, the sheer cold of his opponent's staff sent a jolt through his hand. The slightest fraction of lost focus was enough; what meagre momentum he had gathered was gone. The blade sent spiralling out of his grasp, Ferid sank down in a clear display of defeat.

 _Click._

Krul picked up the blade by the point, paying no heed to how the metal bit deep into the marble-pale flesh. Illuminated by the sun behind her, she appeared unearthly. Wind lifted the ends of of her hair, and their play framed that. She hadn't even started to perspire, whilst Ferid was a mess of sweat, ribbons and clothes askew. Bec de corbin in hand, the weapon dwarfed her. She lifted it as if it were no more than a mere toothpick. It swung loosely in her grasp as she walked back to their match ground.

Ferid inhaled greedily, tasting the sweetness of fresh air; he was grateful for the rest. Trying his best to stand up, he found his legs uncooperative; they trembled with every movement. Two hours of swordplay– even the most adept warrior would be hard pressed to keep it up. And, to add to that, and to render his task of defeating his opponent nigh impossible, she was no simple swordswoman.

Krul Tepes had not come by the prestige of her position by sleeping around. That much was clear.

"Ferid."

He looked up as she called his name.

"To think you wanted to challenge Lucas," she tutted. "Before you so much as reached for your blade, he would've swept the floor with you. Not to mention you have no conceivable way of killing him. What were you going to do? Stab him? Decapacitate him? Such good that would do!"

Her hyena-laugh chased him, mocked him. Wasn't there a law that said to not laugh at people when they were down?

Really, if it weren't for the fact that he was facing a vampire, he would've won. Perhaps. It was entirely likely, yes. Prodding tentatively at his thigh, he could feel the muscles shaking. His legs had gone to sleep; he tried his best to urge them to move, but any attempts to rise resulted in a scrambling mess. Defeated, he resigned himself to sitting on the cobblestoned floor. His meticulous hounding of the maidservants to keep every inch of the area spick-and-span had paid off; his white uniform would remain as pristine as always.

"I don't suppose you could help me get up, Lady Tepes?" he ventured.

"Ah-ah." She shook her head. " _Should_ I help you up? To extend a hand to you after your thoroughly embarrassing defeat may just be pushing the boundaries of propriety, don't you think?"

"You would rather have me scramble on the floor, my ladyship?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in askance. "I did think you were into maintaining dignity at all times."

"There is a certain charm to that, yes. Fitting for a pet to be shorter than the master, below the master." Her words didn't match her actions, however. Instead, she reached forwards and tugged him up. Somehow, with her oversized lance and his sword balanced in one hand, and her helping him up with the other, the image bore a certain comical air.

All of a sudden, he was standing; the humour of the image was only magnified by their height difference. Unable to help himself, he chuckled.

Her nails bit deep into the flesh as recompense, past the thick fabric that made up his practice attire. Sharper than an eagle's talons wasn't enough to describe it. He would know; he'd spent an hour filing them for her.

"Now for the terms of your defeat, my dear _puiule_ ," she said expectantly, relaxing her grip.

Fumbling at the riffles at his throat, he started the process of undoing the many ribbons, ties, metal ornaments, that kept up the collar. "I still can't understand why you would choose to drink from me only whenever I lose." Which was, admittedly, often. With a final tug, the white fabric of his collar parted, exposing his own flesh.

"Some say it's barbaric to drink at the source," she said mildly. Tenderly, she reached to brush aside his hair to better reach her target; the smooth skin of his neck. The wounds from their previous tryst hadn't healed yet; two twin scabs had formed over last week's bite marks. She traced the edges of the wound, giving it an experimental lick. "I suppose using this as fitting recompense for scrabbling in the dirt with a servant is one of the few ways I can avoid the prying eyes of the council. Call it a punishment, and leave it all as it is. Small luxuries; and I do enjoy indulging."

Despite himself, and despite how pathetic Krul's words made him feel, Ferid couldn't help but shiver under her touch. "It's well within your rights to indulge more," he gasped, barely managing to think through the way her fingers ran softly over his skin, setting his nerves afire.

"Stop smiling like that," Krul admonished.

"How can you be so sure that I'm smiling? Your face is currently buried in my neck," he muttered. Yet, just as she said, a maniacal grin had spread across Ferid's features. It offered him a thrill, being her personal livestock. A privilege that, as far as he knew, few had experienced. Sure, there was that one seamstress in the village, and the maidservant that dressed Krul in the morning–

Then, she bit down; the fangs pierced through effortlessly.

His world went white.

No matter how many times he was fed upon, he would never get used to the feeling. Gaze darting around in an attempt to distract himself from the pain, his eyes landed upon a figure; one of the myraid maidservants, her eyes wide in naive innocence. Ferid felt an uncharacteristic wave of self consciousness. Flapping a hand at the girl, he indicated for the servant to go away. Shoo, his hand said.

Instead, the she approached, clutching a sheaf of papers, unsteady and unsure. It seemed that she had business with Krul; and Ferid had learned his lesson well from his mistakes of the day before. He struggled against Krul's grasp, intending to maintain some vestige of dignity–

Just then, Krul bit down, once again, and Ferid squeezed his eyes shut, lost in the dizzying sensation of having his blood sucked.

When he looked back up, the maidservant had gone. Krul released her vicegrip, pink tongue darting out to catch the few remaining drops of blood. Lips reddened to the same crimson, she seemed to have grown greater in stature. Or was it his own lethargy? He swayed on his feet, the exhaustion from the duel wreaking havoc on his balance, aided by the light-headed anaemia such actions brought.

"I've been wondering," he started, words slurring in his mouth. "Do vampires gain weight if they over indulge?"

"How impolite," Krul said primly. "A lady never divulges the secrets to her physique."

He took that as a yes.

"Attend to me later, Ferid. There are errands for you to run, down in the village; that, and an honoured guest." Reaching up, she patted him on the head. Running her hand through his sweat-soaked hair, she hummed to herself, pleased. Sated appetites did wonders for the demeanour.

Ferid was struck by the image of himself as an oversized kitten being mothered by a pint-sized lion, and he giggled. Attempts to restrain himself only resulted in the humour of the situation growing, and he soon found himself subjected to a fit of the giggles.

She lifted her hand from his head, distaste on her fine features. "You've gone quite delirious, I'm afraid."

"S–some rest would be appreciated, Lady Tepes. Lady Krul."

"Such familiarity," she exclaimed in mock horror. "I do think I'll allow it, however. Both the familiarity and the rest, that is. Off with you, off with you. You've tarried too long already."

* * *

The errand turned out to be a task more fitting to that of a mailman.

Ferid glanced at his clothes dismally; overdressed may have been the right word for it. Anticipating being sent to receive an honoured guest, and one likely more pleasant than Lucas Wesker had been, he had dressed up in his best finery. What few pieces of jewelry he had were affixed to him seemed woefully at odds with his task: a gold watch fob; a ribbon cut of the finest silk that had passed through the Silk Road. It didn't hurt that, by means of a bath, there was also the distinct scent of lilies about him. All in all, it was an appearance befitting a boy descended from an eminent Hungarian bloodline.

All of that stood in stark contrast to the brown package he held in those wide hands. Wrapped in brown cheesecloth, it certainly didn't look like something that merited personal delivery by Krul's page. Then again, the Lady had never been bound by the assumptions of tradition, for all that she affected love for it.

"Is that all, Lady Tepes? What else can this glorified pack mule do for you?"

"I preferred you when you were dizzy from anaemia, dear chick," she murmured abstractedly. All her focus was on the task at hand; writing some kind of official document in her best hand. The ink crept across the page like some fat spider. Leaning against the desk, she frowned as the nib punctured through fresh parchment out of sheer carelessness.

"Should I fetch a fresh sheet?" Anything to set down the oversized package he'd been burdened with was quite alright in his book. Oddly shaped; a brazier?

"No, it is alright. Leave it be. The recipient will hardly care. Brute that he is, he might even prefer it." She dipped her quill in ink, and signed the bottom with a decided flourish.

"Brute? Is it Lord Wesker?" On instinct, his hand went to his neck. Being choked was not an experience one forgot easily.

"He is a mere count, dear boy. I would hardly deign to call him an honoured guest." Pricking her finger with the sharpened nib, she let a single drop of blood fall onto the letter. It blossomed where it landed, spreading across the page.

Ferid shifted uncomfortably; vampire blood could turn a human like him, bless him with immortality. Those crimson drops were the essence of all that made the vampire race so terrifying; far more so than the wolves in the night and the owls screeching in the woods. And to see Krul so easily give waste it on some scrap of paper was something near inconceivable for him.

What he would give, to be that little slip of parchment!

"Warm the wax," she said, waving a hand in the general direction of the fireplace.

"Already done." With his hands full, there was no way that Ferid could so easily pass it to her; he jostled the package to illustrate his point.

Krul considered him for a moment. "How efficient," she said, the barest smile ghosting across those pink lips. Crossing swiftly to the fireplace, she picked up the brazier of wax; it, too, fell onto the page as the blood had before, effectively sealing the letter. With deft, practised movements, she pressed the signet ring into the fast cooking wax. The eyes of the family crest stared back up at her, ever-open in watchful vigil.

Despite Ferid's best attempts, he couldn't so much as guess as to the letter's contents. Yet another mystery for the books, then.

Sliding the letter into his coat-pocket, she patted the front of his shirt absently. "Do not go losing it, now. It's a small thing, but depending on how the winds of chance blow, it could be of vital importance."

"So long as they aren't winds of change, I believe that you'll be fine, Lady Tepes. Where do I send this to?"

"I have taken the distinct kindness of tasking your companion already, Bathory boy."

"Companion?" That was odd in itself; he'd thought he would be alone. That might've made for a more boring ride, but one thankfully free of inane babble. Though the mountainous region of the Tepes manor was hardly rolling plains and open meadows, it wasn't particularly life-threatening. That is, unless one was allergic to pollen.

"Why, yes! I am hardly such a merciless master to force you to make the trek alone. You might die of boredom, and whatever should I do then?" Turning him to face the door, she waved a lacy sleeve at the hallway. "After all, it would do you some good to see the world, Bathory boy. Indeed, who better to see it with than one more well-travelled than yourself? Head to the stables; you should take my horse for re-shoeing, too. That might improve its temperament."

Knowing better to disagree, he inclined his head in assent. With his hands full, there was no way to enact a proper bow. Krul didn't seem to notice, deep in some other official document, having returned to her desk.

"I'll take my leave then, Lady Tepes."

Thus he began his strenuous journey down the winding steps and into the courtyard, cheeks flushed with the weight of the package. Unwieldy, the parcel had taken some contortion to fit through narrow doorways, requiring movements that had much in common with the art of circus acrobats to maneuver the brown-wrapped package through the halls without accidentally breaking a vase; that, or puncturing the canvased visage of some ancestor's aquiline nose. Eyes stared down in judgement of this small human intruding in their halls, and Ferid hastened his step. Pulling and pushing it through the halls, whatever

Thus, it was with no small amount of relief that he set down it down on the stable floor. Hay littered the deserted building, ample feed for Kruls beloved stallion. Freshly harvested in the lowlands, the dried blades of grass bestowed upon the stable a sense of vitality– far more so than any room in the frigid castle.

Standing shadowed in the arcade, disguised by the dark fabrics of the servants, that self-same stable boy from last night stood waiting. From the rich magenta, borne by eyes set high above chiseled cheekbones, the servant was a vampire; uncommon, but not unheard of. His step was oddly confident for a simple servant as he approached, sauntering into the room with an arrogance unbefitting a servant. Jet black locks fell about him, unbound, and styled in the manner of the masses. Those maroon-hued eyes glittered in the light thrown from the fireplace, oddly youthful for one of his kind. Sharply cut, his noble features were wholly unsuited to the simple clothes he wore.

"So it's you she sent, is it? Wonderful," the boy said, a sing-song cadence to his voice. "It certainly did take you long enough. I take it that she kept you waiting? The Lady Krul truly needs to do away with the floridity. She's so very concerned in the trappings of her status, at times. Rest assured, Lest Karr won't care much for hell with formalities; he's a pirate, a barbarian. He might even appreciate the honesty." Silvery, it was starkly at odds with his strange accent, his brusque words.

Ferid took an instant liking towards the boy. After being pushed around the previous day by Lucas Wesker, being thoroughly trounced by Krul Tepes, and being spied upon by a particularly nosy maidservant, it was a welcome respite to have somebody treat him with straightforwardness. Even if it was erring on the side of rudeness.

Really! After the trials and tribulations of the past twenty four hours, Ferid was beginning to feel woefully disabused.

The stable boy– if he was indeed a stable boy– eyed him up and down, raising an appraising eyebrow. Ferid could never understand how the children of this region– and those that appeared as children– could so easily affect superiority. It was a skill that bore investigation. Finally, the boy nodded to himself, confirming something to himself.

"You're a fop, aren't you?" asked the boy in his high, piping voice. Perhaps "asked" wasn't the right word for it; there was a certainty to the way it was said that cemented it as fact.

Nominally, Ferid supposed he should object. He shifted slightly, regretting not having changed out of his finery; then dismissed the thought. "If you take that to mean I care for my appearance, unlike the locals, then yes. I'll gladly take that over being a goat." Or a horse; the stable boy was likely the master of the horse. Such people who spent their lives around animals often bore close resemblance to those they ministered care for.

"Goats are pleasant animals, sirrah," the boy chirped, taking no offense. He took the package from Ferid easily; an incredible weight that had needed the full strength of Ferid to carry was shouldered single-handedly, as if it posed no more difficulty than a dandelion. With expert hands, he tied it onto the lone horse's saddle. The earlier sense of danger lingering about him has all but dissipated; perhaps this was a simpleton. A non-threat, a boy that Ferid could easily run roughshod over. And even if he wasn't, Ferid could probably relax around him.

"They do taste good roasted with rosemary and thyme," Ferid said, doing his best to appear pleasant. If he were to have this boy as a companion, it would do him good to make the journey an easy one. He, for one, had no intention of managing a horse, navigating mountain roads, and fencing wits all at the same time.

"Do they?" The vampire touched a hand to his mouth, hiding a curving smile. "I wouldn't know. It's been years since I've had anything except blood. Which, admittedly, tastes of heaven, but does get rather monotonous after some time. Ambrosia is simply water to the angels; by the same token, blood is to us, their ambrosia. Now, whatever do I call you?"

"Vampires are the furthest from heaven, aren't they? How would you know know how the waters of heaven taste?" He snapped back on instinct, his wit getting the better of him. "As for my name–"

Titles held sway, at times; unfortunately, Ferid had none save for that his own surname. As far as he knew, here, it bore less weight than a peasant's own. With nothing else to lay claim to, however, he might as well use it. Cooped up in the comfort of Gabel Fatima's nest, all he'd been taught of his heritage was that it was a noble pedigree. Few had bothered to speak of a simple human child; Ferid himself wondered why he'd been raised.

"– Then I am Ferid Bathory, hailing from the kingdom of Hungary."

"Oh, a Bathory!" Clapping his hands together in excitement, the vampire's smile darkened. Though the eyes remained as wide as they had been throughout, something inscrustable lurked in those maroon depths. Dispassionate, the stable-boy's cheer was one of a child's; uncaring, and apathetic to those that bore no importance. "How long have you been darkening my Lady's doorstep, dear Bathory?"

"Three years or so. Is there something– unconventional with the Bathory name?" Oh dear Lord; the family may have collapsed in his absence. It had, hadn't it? Nothing could explain the.

"No, no!" Waving his hands to illustrate his point, the stable boy indicated the negative. "It's simply that the Bathory line has it's own weight, you see. Though, Lady Krul doesn't care much for titles."

"Are you a titled nobleman, o' stable-boy?" With sardonic flair, Ferid nodded at him. It was easy to talk to this boy, species difference nonwithstanding. Though, on consideration of the latter's species– it was likely that this boy was no more a boy than Krul was a simple village girl. "Here on a visit entertain horses, play music for cattle, and conduct tea parties amongst the goats, and the like, perhaps?"

"If I were?"

Ferid appraised the other, brows furrowed. Though the boy carried himself with a certain dignity, he was far too young to be a noble. He bore none of the feline grace Krul had, nor the lupine intensity in Wesker's gaze. If anything, the boy was too kind to be a noble, let alone a Progenitor.

"Then, as a simple page, I would prostrate myself. It's fortunate that things won't come to that, yes?"

"Indeed, indeed. Tea parties would be wasted on goats; they don't drink tea, nor do they have an appreciation for fine china. In fact–" He leaned forward conspiratorially, mock horror on those childish features. "They eat it. The china, that is. Not the tea. Cattle seem to abhor tea, even as vampires affect a strange human fascination for it."

"Seeing as you know so very much about me– what of you? What is your name, o' Lord Stablemaster?"

"What are names?" He looked ready to wax poetic about the nature of humanity; of vampirism. Something along those lines, and suitably inflated.

"Please, spare me the poetics, and the philosophy." Ferid appreciated theatrics, but only when he was the one exacting them upon some poor innocent soul. Being the target of them wasn't quite the enlightening experience he'd thought it to be.

That merited a laugh from the vampire. "Then, you may call me Asu. It is a nickname, and no more than that, but rest assured; I am one free of heavy burdens such as titles. We shall continue our banter without the chains of propriety, a master of the horse to the master of the servants, chief horse to chief rat–" He paused, distaste creeping in. "Though, there is one thing."

"Which is?" Ferid eyed the now-named Asu with no small measure of apprehension. Though he appreciated the sudden lack of need for formality, it wouldn't be the first time a noble played a trick on him. There was the time with the candelabras– and the time with the missing lamps–

"You should free yourself of those florid clothes before you suffer an unfortunate tumble down some ravine. It isn't quite the glorious end you would expect it to be."

He blinked, unsure. "Eh?"

Asu had patting the glossy flank of the stallion absently, and Ferid waited for a reply. Ever since the Wesker lord's visit, the animal had been oddly skittish, only stilling at the touch of a human. Somehow, that included Ferid himself, though he highly suspected that was because he was one of the few non-vampires in the Tepes employ. Krul had not been pleased at her steed's rebellion; rending it into dog food was the lightest of punishments she had in mind. Ferid had taken one look at the animal, and suggested that it would be a tremendous waste if she killed it. His dislike of horse meat may have played a role or two, in that.

And this vampire was so easily handling it, a task which had evaded even Krul Tepes herself. Skill which could not be denied, that.

"Go change, Ferid," Asu huffed. "Go change before you trip over all those frills and ruffles."

* * *

A/N: And a certain somebody has made his debut! I do hope I can keep up with the expectations surrounding him. This took an oddly long time to write, and be satisfied with. As always, thank you for reading!


	4. iii

Behind the pair of travellers loomed the rough-hewn trail leading up to the Tepes manor. Testament to the persistence and inborn predilection to grandiloquent gestures of its residents, a sizeable segment of the manor house proper hung precariously off the side of a sheer cliff. Shading out the sun, it rose behind them as a grand steward– if grand stewards were squat, unassuming grey blocks of granite, sides crumbling from neglect and the inquisitive progress of creeping vines.

In retrospect, grand steward was very much _not_ an appropriate description. Stone lumberjack, over-protective patriarch; those images may have been a more apt description of the Tepes Manor. Ferid had thought it inelegant upon first seeing it, and his experiences of the past two years had done little to change it. Still inelegant as ever; and architecture was not the man's passion.

With all the wealth no doubt afforded to the family, they could afford much better. That unenviable task wouldn't take much. Build a few more storeys, perhaps, to give it the impression of height. More turrets wouldn't be a bad idea; it was bordering on genius, even. Hew the blocks of marble currently plonked ungracefully on top of droll walls into a semblance of actual gargoyles. _Anything_ , to make it a home suitable for a vampire noble.

Then again, the master had the appearance of a child; and though a terrifying opponent on any political battlefield, she seemed to share the same bad taste in design and decor that plagued elderly tycoons and the degenerate. The sheer brutality of her abode didn't seem to bother her, if the furnishings she had favoured were any indication. Gold was beautiful, when kept to a minimum; when one had a throne made out of it, however, few could call it good taste. Gaudy seemed to kind a word for it. The workers had nearly killed themselves, bringing that grotesque allowance of luxury up. Lady Tepes hadn't even lifted a finger to help, though her inhuman strength would make short work of said task. He hadn't seen her _use_ the damned chair, yet, but that was a different matter. No doubt when she took to it, she would make the momentous event known to everybody in a three thousand kilometre radius.

Ferid was only thankful that she didn't dress herself; one of her favoured maidservants took charge of that. For one that loved grandiose furniture, she paid little attention to the trappings of luxury appropriate to her status, unless the occasion called for it.

But enough of Lady Tepes; instead, the task ahead seemed a greater threat to his life than the maybe-ire of her wrath.

Crow-like, two figures stalked along the narrow, winding trail, navigating the precarious path with practiced ease. One sat astride a noble stallion; the much put-upon other walked at a snail's pace, leading the way. More than ever, the latter was reminded why the Tepes servants stuck largely to mountain boars and whatever the orchard yielded; the journey down could be perilous, if an unprepared journeyman set foot on it. Wind whipped the sides of their cloaks about them, sending the dark fabric flapping in a phantom gust.

Without detours, nor alcoves, or even the occasional small cave for seeking succour, the only respite offered to the weary traveller was the village ahead, nestled in the heart of the mountains. Once, there had been a wider, easier path up; a gently sloping mistress which offered little difficulty. That, like all other soft things in the area, had been eroded. Last spring's rains had made short work of the path Ferid's carriage had taken two years ago.

Clad in a black coat, and a darker hat, Asu cut a stark figure against the craggy mountain road. Toying with the wide brim of said hat in an effort to still it in the temperamental wind, he sat astride the horse's back. Swaying from side to side with the unsure step of his steed, the dark glasses that obscured his face, making it impossible to appraise his expression, or his reaction to the weather. Even for the affability he affected, the vampire had pulled rank when it came to making the journey down; and now he rode in comfort, as Ferid struggled. Though his lofty position on a horse came at the risk of breaking his neck, if there was so much as a fall, the thought didn't bother the vampire.

How _did_ one kill vampires?

Beheading didn't seem to do very much; neither did the sun. Staking them, perhaps, would work. There had to be _some_ substance to the custom of staking the recently deceased. Otherwise, he couldn't very well believe that the already destitute villagers of the surrounding lowlands would so willingly part with a young sapling, and waste it on a grave.

Then again, the common sense of villagers was a poor standard of advice, by any standard whatsoever.

At the very least, Asu hadn't asked to feed on Ferid. He had shown that much restraint at the very least. Ferid's poor neck, and indeed, blood supply, wouldn't survive it; especially not when he was struggling to stay sensible through the painful clarity of the mountain sun. Humans simply weren't built to be water-skins, no matter how vampires saw it; nor were they camels, to slog as beasts of burden.

Every once in awhile, Ferid would stop to catch his breath. Sensing his fatigue, the maddeningly steady clip-clop of hooves behind him would come to a stop. Then he would catch a second wind, and start again. This cycle had marked a great way of their journey thus far.

When they had set out, the sun was low in the sky, painting the heavens a pleasant pink. Now, at midday, it _scorched_. If not for the dark cloak he wore, he would've felt faint a long time ago.

"Are we almost there yet, Asu?"

Asura leaned forward, the edges of his cloak tickling the back of Ferid's neck. Somehow, despite the sickening heat, the cloth remained cool. "I see it up ahead," he said, dismounting lightly. The dust rose up about him as he landed; impossibly heavy for such a young boy.

Tugging at Ferid's hand, the shorter boy lifted his arm to point at something in the far distance. Like marble, the touch of his skin was cold. Clammy, even. "Can you see it?"

"There?" he asked,

His companion nodded. "Quaint little town; they do seem to favour colourful dyes, too. Nothing quite like the vivid reds and purples of viscera, but then again, what is?"

Ignoring the rather revolting image the younger vampire had conjured up, Ferid squinted, trying to catch sight of said settlement. Nothing. The mountains seemed as endless as ever. The sunlight was no longer as crisp, however, and that, he was thankful for; it had started to pain his eyes.

"I suppose I'll have to trust you then, dear Asu," he finally said. Krul may have said to meet up with a certain contact, and deliver a certain package, but he hadn't heard of the errand's conditions, yet. Trust was the only avenue open to him.

"Trust?" Asu blinked, caught off guard. "How generous."

Caught up in his contemplation of the far-off scenery, Ferid didn't pay much attention to the other's reaction to the simple suggestion. "Hmm? Is there something wrong with trust?"

"Ah, ah, nothing. Trust indeed!" Bolstered by a second wind, Asu clapped his hands together in great cheer. "Wonderful! Then, shall I play the rauschpfeife? Quaint a tune though it may be, it would break the monotony. I'm getting rather tired of the birds twittering. Rather too idyllic."

Music; an offer that Ferid hadn't expected. He had to confess, however, that despite his love for the trappings of class and finery, he had little ear for music. Such entertainment was pleasant, but bore little impact on Ferid. Still, the whims of vampires had to be honoured.

"If you wish to, Asu." Ferid murmured, frowning. "I'm afraid I have no instruments to join you with, however."

"That's alright," Asu replied. Fiddling with the horse's saddlebag, he fished a wooden reed flute out of the depths. Carved of the finest purpleheart, the reed flute's seemed well cared for. Rich mulberry veins ran through the body, marbling the purple wood. Other than its exotic hue, however, it appeared otherwise mundane. No carvings, nor gilt. Merely a musical instrument made for the cerebral purpose of use.

"I might as well use this. Anything finer would pale against the mountains," he said, smiling self-effacingly. "I must warn you, however. This is no delicate flute. Far from it. Your Lady Krul doesn't show much favour to this poor instruments voice, and for quite good reason, too. There's no way to make it elegant."

On that ominous note, he blew into it; piercing, its cry shrilled loud in the desolate mountains.

After having only the wind's sighs as company for a goodly ways, Ferid cringed at the sheer loudness of that noise. "That– is loud, to say the least." He quite understood Krul's distaste for the damned thing now.

"Thank you. The harp is much too unwieldy, I'm afraid," he murmured, distracted. Ferid's response hadn't mattered, much. Asu blew into it again; played a few notes. "One must adapt themselves to their circumstances, if they wish to thrive." Giving it a final last puff, Asu nodded to himself, pleased by the response. He began to play in earnest. Soon, the notes resounded through the air about them, carrying with it a rustic tune that spoke of cattle and the buxom milkmaids that tended to them. It made fitting background for the journey ahead.

Ferid tugged at his gloves in thought as he appraised the instrument. The woodwind, rauschpfeife. Relatively new as an invention, it hadn't caught the attention of even the most eccentric of nobles nor their retinues. Too coarse for that; too associated with the common masses. Oddly low, yet managing to pierce the ears, it shrilled on the wind if played incorrectly. And sometimes, even if it was played correctly. For the soft-voiced Asu to play it was an odd choice– one that drew Ferid's attention like a painted target.

On second look, outside of the softening effects of the candle-light, 'Asu'– an irrationally short name for a vampire, even a common one without a title– wasn't quite as young as Ferid had initially thought. The short stature was deceptive, certainly; and the voluminous clothing the boy favoured had done much in concealing his true age. Slightly baby-faced, but certainly not the tiny child he had initially assumed the vampire to be.

His assumptions thus far had all been woefully _wrong_. He could only hope that things would improve.

* * *

Things didn't improve.

Visiting the village wasn't a prospect Ferid particularly favoured in the first place. Two months ago, he had been sent down to the village on a similar errand: bread, perhaps.

Krul, with her characteristic disregard for the opinions of others, had decided to tag along, that one time. And, perhaps by merit of that disregard, at the very first hunger pang, took it into her finely-coiffed head to feed upon him.

The villagers had turned their silly heads away, averted their eyes. Pitiful glances dogged his every step, whispers of 'poor child' echoing from every doorway. The extra loaves of bread and slipped-in pastries that he'd enjoyed by merit of their generosity had trickled to a stop. Word spread fast in these tiny villages, and the very next shop they'd entered offered them perfect courtesy– and no more than that. Clouded, they made it seem as if he was never there.

Pity was such an arrogant emotion. Ferid detested the way it slid, oil-slick, across his senses. It was nearly suffocating, that well-intentioned concern. A starving mother's pathetic excuse of maternal instinct was drowning the imperfect to save the healthy; by the same token, the pity of the villagers who knew _nothing_ , content with their rodent lives and cattle heart, was quite the same. Pity. Such emotion had no place in the eyes of the noble and the genteel. One did one could, and one shouldn't live by the parochialism of those about oneself.

Then again, the villagers were no more than rats. They lived as rats, they thought as rats. Fear, fear. In the end, he and they may be of the same species, but that, he hoped, was a temporary state.

Surely after all years of service, Krul Tepes would deign to offer him a different life?

The lilting melody of Asu's flute broke off, no longer chirruping on the wind, dying slowly, softly. Softness was a welcome change. Ferid was broken out of his reverie. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of ambition, he returned his focus to the task at hand. The very idea of immortality was a long way away, yet; and if he failed in the simplest of tasks– well, he wouldn't want to risk Krul's ire.

Riding into the village, it seemed that the earlier incident wasn't forgotten. Their smiles were fixed, pleasant– in the same way a doll's was pleasant. Smoke rose from nearly every chimney, the residents preparing lunch, dinner. It was all the same meal, after all.

Oh– and the villagers had garlic. All the windowsills, the doorways, the bloody _chimneys_ ; some kind of garlic ornament was on every entrance possible. All in all, it made the village smell like a cooking pot. One that seemed to have a good harvest of said garlic that day, all day.

"Asu, their main crop here is garlic. Will that be of any concern?" Ferid said, unsure if he was sounding exactly like those parochial villagers, or if it was a legitimate concern. Sometimes, it was hard to tell. Vampires and their habits weren't an exact science. He had never seen the vampires back in Lady Fatima's court walk into the sun, for one, but Asu's only concession were the darkened glasses he wore; that, and the heavy cloak he'd donned.

"Fear garlic? Why should I?" Reaching over, he patted the top of Ferid's head; Ferid's pale hair was tugged free from the loose ribbon that held it, and the stands hung free, obscuring his vision. . Somewhere in between the mountain trail and their arrival at the village mouth, Asu had mounted the horse once again. "I'm not a silly _pijavica_ to fear garlic, don't you trouble yourself."

"Ah?"

No small measure of surprise, that. It appeared that garlic was a particularly persistent _myth_ – and nothing more. Well, there goes the garland of garlic bulbs in the servant's quarters, then. Its absence may even make their clothes smell better.

Raising his head, Asu wrinkled his nose in thought. "It smells revolting, no doubt, but not quite enough to chase me off. Manure's odour is a thousand times worse; rotting offal? Multiply that! Both smell of _rot_. Against that, most, it is merely reminiscent of unwashed masses and bad breath. Have you had the misfortune to smell peppers? Those _burn_ the very senses!"

"Apologies–" Shuffling his feet in embarrassment, Ferid fiddled with his sleeves. "It was because Lady Tepes seemed unsettled, walking through here." Sour may have been a more accurate term. Her ordinarily strict disposition had given way to a petulant disgust. Perhaps he had mistaken her disgust for unease. That was entirely possible; her face was impassive at even the most casual of times. An enigma, through and through.

Or, he could just have misread her intentions. That was likely, too.

The vampire raised an eyebrow in response to that. Though shorter than Ferid himself, he managed to embody all the aloof distaste usually only ascribed to cats. "Lady Tepes does as Lady Tepes wants. I can tell you this much, however: she is no _pijavica_. I can only guess it personal preference. Perhaps an imagined panacea for the villager's suspicious hearts."

"Bless."

See? Ferid had been _right_ about the parochialism of the locals. Still, Asu was a far sight friendlier than the other vampires he'd the misfortune to meet. It was almost– easy, to talk to him. After a lifetime of tiptoeing around the whims of his immortal masters, the lack of formality Asu affected was refreshing. To use a much overdone phrase, it was fresh air.

"Then what is she? I thought she was born around these parts."

"A progenitor, simple as that." Tugging at the horse's reins, Asu brought the creature to a stop. Undoing the straps that held Krul's parcel, he allowed it to thud to the floor with a metallic clang. The horse stood straighter, relieved of the tremendous weight. "Though, I believe you knew that well, already," he said, finishing his earlier thread. "This is far enough in. Wouldn't want them to ask odd questions."

Inclining his head, Ferid made to pick up the parcel; and a soft grip on his wrist stayed his hand. He looked up; the mirrored dark glasses that Asu wore meant the only thing looking back at him was his mildly-frustrated gaze.

"I'll carry it," Asu said. "It doesn't weigh much more than willow twigs." Lifting the linen-wrapped parcel easily, he carried it under his arm. Heading off towards the village, horse plodding softly behind him, Ferid could only follow in his wake. "And now– you were saying something about your master, earlier?"

"Yes. You said she wasn't a _pijavica_ , and she didn't fear garlic." Merely hated the smell, as it turned out. "Is she a _moroaică_ , then? Or are all those folk stories, just that: stories?" If garlic had been proven a myth, then it was entirely possible the traditional ways of even categorising them might have been a fiction.

Asura tossed his head, shaking his unkempt locks out of his eyes. The hood slipped off the vampire's head, allowing the jet-black hair to spill down his back, unbound. Horrendously messy as it was, it didn't look so much elegant as wild. A shame, too. If he bothered to tidy up, he might have been a great beauty. There was something about the slant of those brows, the curve to his lower lip that spoke of familiarity. Ferid had never been one for faces.

After a pregnant pause, he spoke. The tinkling lightness of his voice gave way to something quieter. "Is she not your master?"

Ferid inhaled.

"…Yes. That she is." Much more so than the distant Lady Fatima had been. He wasn't quite sure if he loved or hated her for that.

"Then that should be ample. It would be poor reward for me to return her kindness by telling you the very intimacies of her heart and nature, don't you think?"

"Does she have one? A heart, that is." With a wry twist to his lips, Ferid ruffled Asu's hair. The vampire didn't seem to mind the gesture.

"Surprisingly, yes." Mischief playing on the high notes of his voice, he continued. "Though, I must say, it is an organ akin to an old prune. Withered with age, pickled with salt. Not quite sure if it's still capable of feeling emotion, though, but she _does_ have one."

"I'm rather certain that prunes aren't pickled in salt, unless somebody has unconventional preferences," Ferid quipped back, his mood brightening with their shared irreverence. "We'll see how much of a heart she has, if we fail to return before dark."

"Despising lateness doesn't necessarily mean one is heartless, merely impatient." Asu looked up for a moment, head tilting. "On another matter, and one far more interesting: has anybody told you that the way you smile is downright unnerving?"

"Not really, no." A patent lie. "I think it a perfectly ordinary, if stunning, smile."

"Looks like Krul's self-absorbance is rubbing off on you. Quite–"

Their easy banter came to an abrupt stop as Asu tugged at Ferids' arm. Whatever Asu thought of Ferid's narcissism, the latter would likely never find out. "Ah, look there." Inclining his head at a waiting figure, the vampire's slouched posture immediately corrected itself. "Seems like we've kept our honoured guest waiting."

Looking up, Ferid caught sight of a figure ahead of them. A woman, it seemed. Leaning against a lush tree, she watched them approach. Her crimson hair was tied up in a severe bun, and not a single strand loose was tugged loose despite the gust that played havoc with her clothes. The willow tree above her provided a measure of shade, certainly, but the barest sheen of sweat beaded her high forehead. The summer heat was all-consuming; nobody was spared from it. If not for those unmistakeable cherry red irises of her piercing gaze, he might have mistaken her for an ordinary human, if somewhat given to austerity. As they approached, she stood to attention. Carrying herself with a dancer's erect posture, the earlier languor drained away. One thing was for sure: she was incredibly tall, dwarfing not only the diminutive Asu, but Ferid himself. A veil of the finest viridian obscured the lower half of her face, rendering what lay beneath it an inscrutable mystery.

"Lydia. Of Lest Karr's faction," she proclaimed, stentorian. Booming with all the authoritative confidence of a military man–military woman, it seemed–it shook the very leaves. Not one for niceties, then. "Are you the messengers of Eight Progenitor, Krul Tepes?"

"The one and only!" Asu sang, skipping up to her. His burden rattled the pebbles in his path, leaving a line traced in the soil behind him. At this point, the white cotton the cylinder had been wrapped with had all but disappeared under the stains of dust and dirt. "Not that I'm the good lady herself, of course. But we do come bearing gifts! You must have come from quite aways away–"

"Much appreciated," came the curt reply. She moved forward, out of the reaching shadows of the cypress– whatever was a cypress doing here?– but Asu danced out of her reach, moving from foot to foot like some demented jackrabbit, waving his hands about him to signify the negative.

"You aren't even going to let me finish?" He pulled a face, not at all put down by Lydia's curtness. "Well, understandably so. It's this damned heat, I swear. Making barbarians out of the very best of us. But first, there is the matter of fairness."

"Is it not a gift?" Retreating back to the cypress, she undid the veil about her face. Without the scrap of fabric softening her features, Ferid saw that she was built like an ox, neck thick and corded with muscle. If not for her full lips, the only aspect of femininity about her, he would have assumed her to be a man. "Lord Karr had assumed it to be so."

"Even if what we receive is a mere courtesy, it isn't right to not receive the slightest reward, nor recompense! You have travelled a long way; so have I." He glanced at Ferid, and amended his words. "We, that is. Can't forget my good companion; the spirit of fairness that we've called upon wouldn't stand for it, I'm afraid."

For the first time, the barest hint of a smile. "You make a good case, my man." Sunlight falling through the leaves dappled her face, making any attempts at reading her expressions uncertain– but for the first time, Ferid thought that the barest hint of a smile could be seen in the lines of her face.

"Simply overjoyed to hear that," Asu said, not missing a beat.

Reaching up once again, this time she tugged at the ribbons that trapped her hair in that severe bun. Pulling it free, her hair spilled down in curls; the crimson curls likely hadn't been washed in some time, and it hung down about her face damply. "Would this suffice? It is, as you have put it, simply a mere courtesy, but one precious to me all the same."

"Oh?" Asu cocked his head to one side. "Precious?"

She offered no response, holding the ribbon out in silence.

"Well, it'll do. One precious purple ribbon, in exchange for an oversized, overwrought, and wholly deadly vampire weapon." He dislodged the long-suffering cylinder from his back, allowing the strap to slide down into his gloved hand. "A good and fair trade, as far as trades go."

Reaching out to take the proffered package, her green-dyed sleeve slipped down, exposing the tanned skin beneath. Ferid noted the embroidery on the end, archaic looking forms that seemed to be some form of alphabet– Greek, perhaps?

Both of them stepped back, synchronised, their new prizes with them.

"A good and fair trade," she echoed.

Ferid stepped forward, too, determined to play some kind of role in their exchange. "Now that all the posturing and puffing of business is done, madam Lydia, Asu," he started. "Would the good lady find herself in the mind to pay a visit to the Tepes manor?"

Lydia finally noticed him. "And who might _that_ be?" she asked, turning sharply on her heel to face him. "Does the Lady enjoy her pets so much, to let them wander around without so much as a leash, or a brand?"

Instinctively, his left hand tried to reach up, trace the unmarked flesh where thee everyday servant's brand would ordinarily be– but caught himself. Instead, he looked her square in those cherry-red eyes, meeting that gaze evenly. Expecting the usual disdain, he sent off his balance when he saw softness there. It was– odd. Uncharacteristic, really. Even the amicable Asu didn't seem to regard Ferid as much more than furniture.

"I am Ferid, madam Lydia." He was sure that madam wasn't an appropriate title– but that didn't matter very much. He had learned his lesson from the day before, and learned it well: afford no excess courtesy unless one wished to be strangled. "Ferid, of the illustrious Bathory line." How many times had he repeated the tired old strain of his lineage, already? "Not so much a pet as a servant, and the distinction, though fine, is one that exists all the same."

"Haven't heard of them, I'm afraid," she said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "Don't feel too bad about that. I barely even know the noble families of my own homeland, let alone Romania's wastrels."

"Hungary, actually," he cut in. "The Bathorys are Hungarian, though they have ties to Wallachia."

"Hungary, then." On her brisk, clipped tongue, the country seemed foreign– exotic, even. "Well met, Mr. Bathory."

"And you, madam Lydia? Do you have a last name, or do you lack roots?"

"You wouldn't know of my ancestry, Mr. Bathory," she replied, unperturbed. "It matters not for a human like you. Suffice to say, few have heard of it."

He frowned. "The country, then?"

"One long dead, and far before your time."

That didn't help very much, though logic dictated it should. Monarchies came and went, and all too often, people owed their loyalty to the king, and through them, the country. "Dead because of a fallen king, or dead because of the utter extinction of their peoples?"

"Both and neither." For somebody who appeared as simple as Lydia did, she did love her riddles.

"That–"

Asu coughed. Clapping his hands together, the pair were broken out of their little exchange by the miniature thunderclap. "As captivating as the minutiae of ancestry may be, time is running a little short, yes?"

Swivelling to face the other vampire, she nodded. "Indeed." The barest lilt of humour touched her voice as she spoke. She shook their hands, shouldering her burden with ease. "I shall take my leave, then. My master's lands are a goodly ways away, and I have tarried too long already. It might take a fortnight to return. In the worst case, a month."

"May our next meeting be somewhere not quite as hot as the Wallachian mountains caught in the heart of summer," Ferid quipped.

"Yes, yes." Patience was not Asu's strong suit, it seemed. "We will meet again, dear one. Exactly as my companion has said. Though I do hope your master remains on good terms with Lady Krul; their egos can be so unbearably insufferable at times."

"That it is." She had already left, halfway down the hill, and it was a wonder that she could hear them, let alone answer. For immortals, the pair of vampires that Ferid found himself in company with were strangely aware of the march of time. "Your music isn't half-bad, my man," Lydia called out.

Asu's fingers went to the flute at his side, offering a smile in return. With her back turned on the pair of them, Ferid wasn't sure she saw it.

And then, with a leap, a bound, she was gone.

Confident that they were out of earshot, Ferid turned to his companion. "Did Lady Tepes _actually_ ask for a gift?"

"In a way, yes."

That didn't answer Ferid's questions– and it must have shown on his face, for Asu continued to speak.

"Oh, look at me, I sound like that woman, don't I? What with her short sentences and utter lack of imagination. I've met her, once or twice before, though never had the good misfortune to speak with her– and she's always so very brisk. You could rip her apart and have vermin pick her clean, and you still wouldn't find a single humourous bone in that rotting carcass." He laughed softly to himself, finding amusement in the image. "Lady Krul didn't so much as ask for a gift, as ask for a token of our task. I'm fairly sure she wanted me to take an arm from our dear guest, or something suitably gory like that. A tropy, if you will. Which, of course, would burn all bridges between us, but Lady Krul has never been one for politics. Haven't even been here a week, yet, and she's given me all the manner of insufferable tasks. I quite tire of it– But with this, it's a perfect way to fulfill her wishes, and not risk my neck in a duel. Dangerous pursuit, that. She's something of a harpy, really."

Ferid's head was spinning with the way Asu spoke, butterflying from one thought to the other with no regard for the very person he was holding a conversation with. "Then, should we return?" he asked, eyeing the path from which they came apprehensively.

"Ordinarily, yes. After we brought the horse to have his shoe fixed, that is."

Ferid's face fell. They'd made the trek down here for a single errand?

"Yet, today–"

"Today?"

"I do feel like seeing the sights a little."

Ferid immediately cheered up at Asu's suggestion. Wasn't _that_ a suggestion for sore legs! "The village's sights?"

"It's rather absurd that you even have to _ask_ that." Shaking his head in mock admonishment, Asu continued. "I came up the other path; smoother journey, yes, but that naturally means I haven't visited this particular little hamlet before. It certainly has a rustic charm to it, too, if somewhat repugnant in odour. All that _garlic_."

Seizing the opportunity to take charge, Ferid pushed ahead. "Then, we should swing by the butcher's, pick up some sausages for the maids. There isn't much to see, in this village. See one country bumpkin's home, and you've seen it all. The only attraction worth anything is the redstone cave a little ways down– they say a man-eating bear used to live in it."

Ah– sausage. Even if the lady of the manor didn't care for anything save blood– The maids did seem woefully starved of anything that could be classed a luxury.

Unfortunately, the shopkeeper wasn't quite as welcoming as she had been, earlier. Slamming her meaty palms on the table, she stared them down like the Cretan Bull. Hercules himself would find it a mighty task to wrestle with her wrath.

"Who is that, vampire brat?" she demanded. "Bringing more of those creatures into my village, are we? I should've known you were _rotten_."

"As much I would love to lay claim to that species, madam, I am human," he managed through gritted teeth. "As for my companion–"

"Please, ma'am. I'm– I'm his cousin. Asu," the smaller boy stammered, hiding behind the taller man. Even Ferid was almost convinced– that is, if Asu's earlier flippancy hadn't made such a deep imprint on Ferid's mind. "I'm just a simple stable boy, working for her Ladyship."

She harrumphed, peering down her impressive nose. The wart at its end seemed to be a third eye, drawing the eye. Ferid couldn't keep his eye off it. Thoroughly revolting, the hair sprouting up proudly was the magnum opus of the damned thing.

"And his glasses?"

"Poor… poor eyesight." Ferid could feel Asu nodding curtly; he took it as approval. "My poor cousin had the terrible misfortune to be born with weak eyes. Is it the done thing, here, to mock poor cripples? All we want is to buy sausages. Does that merit such harshness?"

"Too late," she snapped. "The cattle round these parts have been killed by some beast. A wolf. Goodman Antonescu shot it dead, wears the pelt around his waist. There aren't any veal sausages for good money."

Antonescu– the name was familiar somehow. He dismissed it as an idle thought. It was a common enough name. "Did you harvest the meat, at least? Of the cattle, that is."

"Pies. Not fit for eating; I have half a mind to feed the damned things to the dog. We don't want any pricolici running around. You aren't going to buy _that_ , are you?"

Ferid shrugged, nonchalant. "Since you called me vampire, I don't see why not."

"C-cousin…" Asu chimed in, playing the role of terrified simpleton to perfection. "That's scary."

"Looks like your unholy cousin has more sense than you do. Don't come crying to me when you're hunted down," she snorted. "Eat the meat of a wolves' prey, become a wolf yourself. And what then? Goodman Antonescu's family will be warm, that's exactly what."

Ferid couldn't help but smile at the superstition. Werewolves didn't exist, as far as he knew– and even if they did, they weren't. "How much for the pies, then?"

She named her price; too low to bother with haggling, Ferid handed over the small coins without much fuss. Putting her meaty hands to good use, she deftly slipped the pies into dusty cheesecloth. They watched her in silence, unwilling to gather more vitroil.

Asu stepped forward, snatched the pies from her. Storming out in high dudgeon, Ferid followed in his wake.

"Foul woman." Asu spat, scuffing his feet on the dirt floor in sullen distaste. "Foundless, boundless superiority. If this weren't the only village around here– I would." Asu paused, lips twisting in humour, before continuing. "I would salt their fields, blast their meads, lay their general area as waste."

Ferid started, caught by the reference. "Aren't those the words of a playwright?"

"For a human, he wasn't quite so bad. A different line to these insular fools, at least. Irrationally terrified. Rabbits, larks, woodland creatures have more heart than them."

Mood utterly spoiled by their cold reception, the rest of their time in the villae went by in silence. Dropping the horse off at the blacksmith's, Ferid took care to extract a promise that the beast would be delivered back up to the manor once the task was done.

They were bowed out of the shop briskly– the blacksmith wasn't one for petty feuds, then. He spoke the language of the coin, and that was something Ferid welcomed.

Once they were out of the village boundary, Asu broke his silence. "Without that tiresome creature, what say you to taking the Vampire Express?"

"Express?" He stared at Asu in askance.

"I will take that as a yes, then. Think yourself fortunate."

 _Oof_. All the air was knocked out of him as Asu threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Too thin, his collarbones dug into Ferid's gut.

"Vampire express…" Well, that made sense now. Digging his hands into Asu's clothes, he tried his best to distract himself from what was _sure_ to come next.

Unfortunately, no amount of will can stop the high-pitched shriek that emits when one finds themselves carried across the landscape withough a single scrap of dignity. Asu's bounds ate up the ground beneath them– it also fed Ferid's nausea. Sickeningly fast–

* * *

Arriving in a fraction of the time it took them to get down, Asu dumped Ferid onto the ground unceremonoiusly. Picking himself off the ground, he found his hair woefully dishevelled– to an extent it almost rivalled Asu's own rat nest. The wind which had tugged at their cloaks on the mountain trail had intensified on the so-called 'Vampire Express'.

Looking up, Ferid realised why Asu had brought their journey to an abrupt stop, before their actual destination. They were in front of the gate, proper; the sun was setting; and a familiar figure stood before them, silhouetted by the crimson sun. Lady Tepes was here, and Lady Tepes did not look pleased.

"Ah! Master of the household–! Spare this poor, pitiful stable boy for presuming to rappear in such an undignified manner!" Doffing his hat, Asu swept into a graceful bow. Gone was the ragged country accent of a bumpkin, leaving his silvery voice as light as any noble's.

Ferid couldn't believe his ears. Now, of all times, was when Asu decided to show proper regard? The act was somewhat unnatural.

Krul, too, appeared unsettled: she shifted slightly, lace sleeves rustling. Or perhaps it was irritation that so troubled her. The twist to her lips as she moved closer to them suggested it to be the latter. "Asura. Whatever are you doing, playing house? Is the inertia of immortality driving you to frivolity?"

"Asura?" Ferid glanced at the other in askance. "That's your name?" Rising out of the annals of myth, the moniker called to mind demons and divine retribution. It was wholly unsuited to the unassuming boy, even for one with as much a flair for the dramatic and the gruesome as he.

"Indeed, Ferid. Don't you think that something as silly as Asu is a little bit of a ridiculous name? I hadn't expected you to know who I was, but a little intelligence, perhaps, would have been in order," the now-named Asura sang in that silvery way of his. "Sorry, Krul. I wanted to test the mettle of your new obsession. It's been a long time since I saw you find enjoyment in anything, let alone something _living_. Someone, I suppose. He's a character in himself."

The lack of a title was not lost on Ferid; horrified, his mouth gaped open. If those very words had slipped out from the mouth of a mere servant, such presumption would no doubt draw the ire of Krul Tepes. Being put right through a wall was the least one could expect.

Taking Ferid's hand in his own, Asu patted it gently, maroon eyes boring into Ferid's own brown. "I'm hardly older than you, Ferid, but you have much to learn, I'm afraid. Have I lied? No. You simply jumped too far, and too fast." TIlting his head slightly, he glanced back at Krul. "Can I have him, instead? He's as sheltered as a little lamb, ripe for the slaughter. It's positively charming."

"…I'm glad you're so taken with the Bathory," she finally said, after a long pause. "I hadn't expected such mercy of you. And where is the token?"

With a flourish, Asura brandished the purple ribbon like a banner. "Here, here."

"I expected something more substantial," she pronounced, disappointed.

"A token is a token; taking the arm off your prospective ally's lieutenant isn't the best way to get into his good graces."

"I do not need his good graces!" Krul hissed. "You rather have Lest Karr think me a timid fool? As far as cultivating reputations go, that is a poor choice. "I much prefer my current moniker, as painfully rustic as it may be." She held out her hand imperiously, clearly expecting the little scrap of fabric to be dropped right into her hand.

Asura obliged her.

"Cruel to the maids, maybe. How many dresses do you own, now?"

Fist closing over the ribbon, she nodded. "At last count, just a little over two thousand. Leave you two to play house, now shall I? Refrain from arson while I'm gone." Finally deigning to address the taller boy, she nodded in his direction. "Good work, Ferid. I half expected you to have run away, at this point."

"But Lady Tepes, I _must_ object. Do you know him?"

"I am _right_ before your eyes, you know?" Asura tapped at Ferid's shoulder, prompting the human to turn and face him. He had taken off the dark glasses, and now deep burgundy bored into Ferid's face, laying him bare.

Spinning on his heel, he faced the smaller man. "Asu– no, Asura. Who are you?"

"And if I said the Tepes household has no more to their name," he said. "Would that be enough to sate your curiosity?" Cat-like, he yawned. The canines glinted, stalagmites reaching out to snare the unwary traveller. "I, I, _I_! I, poor Asura Tepes, am the very last one of that line. The rest are– debased."

"True enough," Krul chimed in. "Now, you two play. I shall see you two on the morrow." And she was gone.

Asura collapsed onto he ground with a grateful sigh. Gangly with adolescense, he sprawled out across the grass, paying no heed to the green stains that would undoubtedly soil his fine clothes. Patting the ground beneath him, he gestured at Ferid. "Now, come, sit down, watch the sky with me."

"That isn't proper, Lord Tepes." Whether that meant proper for a servant to accompany a master, or proper for the latter to sit around like some bumplin, Ferid wasn't sure.

"Asura will do," he said. "That, or O' Stablemaster. The latter had a nice ring to it."

Ferid stared for a moment; for a moment, sparrows and daws chattering overhead was the only sound. Then, nodding, he too joined Asura on the floor. To hell with his white clothes; hell, he was rather done with playing the role of the foolish servant. Completely, utterly, _done_ with it.

"I'm getting rather tired of being kept ignorant about everything," he said conversationally. "Mind telling me, Asura?"

"Not knowing?" The sun went behind a cloud, and the ground seemed muted. There were few colours in this desaturared world. "That's much simpler. Enjoy it while it lasts; there is no black-and-white when you find yourself dead and gasping for air. Or alive and choking on your breath. Same difference."

"Then, as a vampire–"

"A vampire?"

"If her Ladyship ever saw fit to turn me, that is."

"If you would believe me, she had _no_ intention of turning you. After all, she's already turned _me_ , and I'm the last of her line," Asura snapped. "Now, shut up and watch the sunset. I find myself caring little for an interrogation at the moment."

There wasn't much else to do, save for acquiesce silently.

In the span of twenty hours, their positions had been thoroughly reversed. Stable boy to noble; noble to pet.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's the wrap of the first arc! Asura Tepes, Krul Tepes, and Ferid have all been properly introduced, two OCs have made an appearance, and things have been set into action. This took some time to write, and I apologize for the delay. There's a few references in here that I added in to try and give it a feeling of the past, and all that. Anachronisms snake in, here and there, of course...

1) The rauschpfeife is a woodwind instrument that is considered medieval in the 21st century, but was relatively new to the time period Candles is set in. It would be an odd choice of instrument for Asura, all things considered.

2) I mentioned a few types of vampires; there were many different myths, and the vampires myth of the past was quite different from the vampires of today. Pijavica was the source of the garlic myth; moroaică is the feminine form of the Romanian moroi, so on, so forth. Pricolici were a sort of werewolf/vampire mythological hybrid. It was just a way to add some superstitious flavour to the text~ There's a significance to it, but more of a trivia one. You'll find out later on!

3) Lydia! Another OC of mine. Fear not; I will try my best to write a well-rounded character.

Now, onto the things revealed in the fanbook. In the fanbook, it's revealed that Ferid is at the very least older than the 12th century. And that Crowley was from the Crusades. It also reveals their true names, when they were human, and let me tell you– I did not expect that. So, after much deliberation, I decided that, to hell with it. I'll throw that tidbit out of the window when it comes to this fic.

Once again, thank you for reading this far!


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